Catherine Wheels

We run like children down the hill,
her small cold hand in mine,
as the mist of early morning
parts its veil. Our breath steams
and mingles to form streamers,
as her ash blonde hair escapes
her bobble hat and gleams with frost.
I love to see her face ablush
with cold, pinker than her lips.
She laughs and screams as the slope
grows steeper and we nearly slip,
but catch each other, spinning
on damp grass. The smells of earth,
of loam, of wet overcoat and stale perfume
arise as I look into her eyes
and still see fireworks from last night.